The Laughter of Dead Kings by Elizabeth Peters Page A

(read: expensive) places in London to which John had never taken me. I took to it right away—the circular drive set back from the Strand, the top-hatted serf who leaped to open the door of the taxi, the beautifully appointed lobby. Schmidt was waiting, arms open. He hugged me and would have hugged John if John hadn’t been ready for him, and announced he had been able to wangle a table in the grill. It must have been a big deal. John looked impressed.
    While Schmidt pored over the menu I studied him with mounting concern. His color was fine and he certainly hadn’t lost any more weight, but there was something…His eyes kept shifting.He babbled, not with his usual manic enthusiasm, but as if he were talking at random to keep his mind off other things.
    Finally I said, “Okay, Schmidt, that’s enough. Get it off your chest. That’s what we’re here for.”
    Schmidt took out a large handkerchief and pressed it to his face. “I do not want to talk about it. Later, perhaps. Not here. I do not wish to weep in public. Distract me. Tell me about yourselves, what you are doing. How is the business? Any new objects of interest?”
    “There’s a rather nice Entombment of Christ by one of the fifteenth-century German woodcarvers,” I said. “But don’t expect you’ll be offered a discount. He always ups the prices for friends.”
    Schmidt broke into a loud peal of laughter. “Very good, very good. I will go to the shop tomorrow to have a look.”
    I opened my mouth and got a sharp kick on the ankle.
    “By all means,” John said. “How long do you intend to stay, Schmidt?”
    “I do not wish to interfere with your plans,” Schmidt said.
    “They are flexible,” said John, in what had to be the understatement of the year. I felt sure he still intended to get out of town next day, without telling Schmidt. Not a good idea, I thought. That would leave Schmidt on the loose in London, thoroughly and (from his point of view) legitimately mad as hell at us. I had learned not to underestimate my boss. He’d be on our trail as soon as he learned we had vanished from his ken. The idea of having his rotund and conspicuous person following us to Egypt made me very uneasy. Supposing, that is, that we were going to Egypt.
    Observing my knitted brows, Schmidt said, “You are not worrying about Clara, I hope. I have made certain she will be looked after.”
    “Good,” I said absently.
    I think we had an excellent meal, though I can’t remember whatI ate. New and alarming ideas kept popping into my head. John had made rather a point of making sure Schmidt stayed off the streets. Was the old boy in danger? And if so, from whom? And if so, why? And if so, we couldn’t leave him unprotected.
    I came back to the real world to hear John and Schmidt chatting about the Victoria and Albert Museum.
    “I have not been there for some time,” said Schmidt, dabbing daintily at his mustache. “I would like to have another look at the armor collection. Vicky, you will join me, I hope? You too are welcome, John, though I suppose you will be busy with the shop.”
    “I thought you were coming by to look at the Entombment ,” John said.
    “Another day, perhaps.”
    Schmidt insisted on escorting us to the door. “So,” he said, “tomorrow at nine, Vicky, for breakfast, and then the Victoria and Albert.”
    He stood waving and blowing kisses as the taxi pulled away.
    “Did you get the impression that I am not wanted tomorrow?” John asked.
    “I got a lot of impressions, none of which makes any sense. I am beginning to think—”
    “Not now. That is to say,” John amended, “you are of course free to think all you like, but let’s not discuss it now.”
    So I confined myself to staring out the window. London is one of my favorite cities. I used to feel safe there, even after the suicide attack in the Underground and the foiled bombings. Terrorist attacks are as random as tornadoes, I told myself; they are, unhappily, as likely in